Cerise
by oceayen
Summary: Mere moments are all it takes for the pieces to fall into their places in his head. The empty space on the other side of the bed is cold. Could only mean one thing; Gumball's been up and out of the bed for a pretty long time now. He feels.. empty. Stupid. [oneshot]


**A/N:** Honestly, I couldn't think of a title, so the title has no relation to the story whatsoever except that it's a shade of red. Creys. The summary makes it look like angst but it's really not so if you're expecting angst, I'm sorry. Also, it's my first time writing these two (and I _really_ don't know where this even came from; by the way, if it's not clear enough they're in a FWB relationship) so I'm not really sure about this, but enjoy.

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><p>It's the noise that wakes Marshall Lee; that incessant, repetitive sound emitted by the union of rapid fingers and a keyboard. The shattered prospect of slumber is a bit of a loss, considering how he had actually managed to fall asleep earlier that night. Unusual. But he doesn't mind that much—though the indifference probably does not show on his expression—since he's used to being awake at night anyway. Such is the life of a night owl.<p>

(One can call it insomnia, though he does not consider it thus. Insomnia is defined as a sleep disorder, the prolonged and unusual inability to get enough Z's. His sleeping schedule is more of a decision, since he himself prefers being awake during nighttime than daytime, partly due to a strange aversion towards sunlight and partly due to the observation that nighttime is just so much more interesting. _A decision gone out of control_, Fionna once said to him. Whatever. Still his own thing, and he wouldn't trade it for a "normal" sleeping schedule.)

Mere moments are all it takes for the pieces to fall into their places in his head. The empty space on the other side of the bed is cold. Could only mean one thing; Gumball's been up and out of the bed for a pretty long time now. He feels.. empty. _Stupid._

A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells him that it's three in the morning and the bluish light emanating from the laptop on the desk, illuminating the slender figure in front of it, only confirms everything.

Groggily, he shrugs off the blankets—Gumball must have placed them on him after he fell asleep; the thought of such a gesture from him, admittedly, warms his insides far too much for his liking—and shuffles toward his roommate, who is so focused on his task that he doesn't notice the shuffling sound of Marshall's dragging steps that the latter bothers not to hide. The cup beside the gadget, Marshall notes, is filled with a dark liquid that can only be coffee, and this realization alarms him somewhat. For Gumball's a tea person through and through. He loathes coffee unless it's an ingredient in sweets, and otherwise consumes it only when necessary.

_So _this_ is what necessary is,_ he thinks.

Somehow, this observation only bolsters his determination.

He ponders on how to catch Gumball's attention with the least number of words possible before finally deciding on, "Bubba."

The effect is instantaneous and rather comical. Gumball's chin jerks up and his posture stiffens, going from _almost_ slouching (because apparently Gumball never slouches, not even during desperate hours; God forbid someone think him ill-mannered due to bad posture; yeah, whatever) to rigidly straight. Slowly, he turns around and narrows his cobalt gaze at the other male. "It's _Gumball._ You know that name is off-limits." Then, almost vindictively, _"Abadeer."_

(Silently he notes that despite their recently established _arrangements_, the other's arctic nature still hasn't melted.)

Normally he'd volley a stupid, taunting remark, but something—he doesn't know what, exactly; maybe it's the bags under Gumball's eyes, or the cup beside his right hand, or the information on the screen that Gumball's been typing the whole time, yet they're all thoughts Marshall can't even dream to comprehend—makes him swallow the comeback on the tip of his tongue. He'd called Gumball "Bubba" first anyway. It's only fair.

Instead, with a deadpan voice, "Go to sleep."

"Did I wake you?" Regained his senses, it seems; now he looks mildly embarrassed for his earlier outburst. For the first time, Marshall notices that he's put on a shirt. The mortifying disappointment that follows this observation is quickly replaced by a stupid fuzziness once the shirt strums a chord within him. That shirt was his, once, a long time ago. He'd given in to Gumball back in high school, fully expecting it to be tossed to the back of the closet as soon as his back is turned. But he gave it anyway.

"Sorry." Appearance not to notice where his friend's eyes are trained on, Gumball shakes his head. How obstinate. "And I can't. I need to finish this."

His hand shoots forward, almost involuntarily, fingers wrapping around his roommate's arm. "C'mon. Go to sleep." Gumball looks like he's a few seconds away from slapping Marshall in the face, and a part of him finds it entertaining, how the other is more expressive without sleep. A master at hiding his true emotions, indeed. Oft he's wished that Gumball would show what he feels more. Those walls get exhausting to climb after a while.

(Of course, Marshall is also quite the hypocrite. If anything, he has walls that are just as thick and tall.)

He speeds up his speech to avoid a red mark on his cheek. "It's, you know, not like I'm worried or anything. But the noise is really keeping me awake." Oh, great. It must look like the complete opposite, what with the stuttering and all. Not to mention the utter transparency of his lie. What's wrong with him? He pulls off deceptions infinitely better than this daily, and now when he actually _needs_ his skill, it falters. Shit. Well, at least it's too dark for Gumball to see that his cheeks have turned red. "And you're no fun when you're all tired and stuff..

"And because you're my friend. Sort of."

Wait—did he just—oh, fuck it. Fuck it all. _Not_ worth it. This is too embarrassing. "You know what, whatever. Do what you want. I don't really c—"

"Thanks."

"—huh?"

Gumball's smiling at _him_, a one hundred percent genuine smile, and it's a sight so rare nowadays that he stops just to stare at it. Small, but terrible.

_Fuck you, Gumball._

God damn it, he feels like he's about to combust.

"I'm almost done, anyway. I suppose I can finish it tomorrow."

"Why the sudden change of mind, old man?" Blink. Pushing his luck seems to be ingrained into his personality, huh? It's out of control.

Thankfully, Gumball doesn't change his mind. He turns around, saves the document, tosses the cup into the trash can beside his desk and turns off his laptop. "You're older than me." _Doesn't seem like it._ "And I thought it was quite touching. I like being your friend, Marshall. Insufferable you may be on occasion."

"You—what?"

What the hell. When did this conversation take that turn?

Before he speaks, he stands and faces Marshall, who takes a startled step back because their faces are _way_ too close now and _what the fuck is going on_. There's a glint in Gumball's eyes and it reminds him of the sun in the sky, and he doesn't like it. "Well, if I didn't like being your friend, why would I be here?"

What is he doing? Slowly, Marshall regains his footing on unsteady ground, eyes narrowed at the other male. He's not going to let himself be unbalanced, or whatever the other is trying to do. "..The sex?"

He expects Gumball to recoil, to quit his ministrations at the mention of, in his own words, an improper and embarrassing topic. _Improper and embarrassing, are you sure? Big words for someone who seems to enjoy it quite a lot_, he'd retorted once, and was promptly rewarded with the pleasure of watching his companion's ears turn a lovely shade of red.

To his surprise, nothing happens except for the slight shifting of his smile; from sweet to sly, and Marshall's heartbeat begins to pick up its pace, because fuck him three times over if Gumball didn't look sexy in that moment. It's a look rarely directed at him, honestly. One of a predator surveying its prey, and honestly if it were from someone else he'd exert all his force into turning the tables.

But this one is from _Gumball._

"That, too."

Then, as fast as it appears the stare disappears and he feels warmth on his cheek—the warmth that is Gumball's lips—then it's gone again and he's left staring at empty space, a surprised hand on his cheek.

"Good night, Marshall," says Gumball from behind him, punctuated by the sound of shifting blankets and covers.

He barely manages to say it back, and when he does, it comes out in a whisper. "..Good night."

_..Isn't he going to finish what he started?_

A quick peek confirms his suspicions.

_Bastard._

(Well, mission accomplished, at least.)


End file.
